“Now, let us try!”

The body of Bartholomeo lay on a long table.  To hide the revolting spectacle of a corpse whose extreme decrepitude and thinness made it look like a skeleton, the embalmers had drawn a sheet over the body, which covered all but the head.  This mummy-like figure was laid out in the middle of the room, and the linen, naturally clinging, outlined the form vaguely, but showing its stiff, bony thinness.  The face already had large purple spots, which showed the urgency of completing the embalming.  Despite the skepticism with which Don Juan was armed, he trembled as he uncorked the magic phial of crystal.  When he stood close to the head he shook so that he was obliged to pause for a moment.  But this young man had allowed himself to be corrupted by the customs of a dissolute court.  An idea worthy of the Duke of Urbino came to him, and gave him a courage which was spurred on by lively curiosity.  It seemed as if the demon had whispered the words which resounded in his heart:  “Bathe an eye!” He took a piece of linen and, after having moistened it sparingly with the precious liquid, he passed it gently over the right eyelid of the corpse.  The eye opened!

“Ah!” said Don Juan, gripping the flask in his hand as we clutch in our dreams the branch by which we are suspended over a precipice.

He saw an eye full of life, a child’s eye in a death’s head, the liquid eye of youth, in which the light trembled.  Protected by beautiful black lashes, it scintillated like one of those solitary lights which travelers see in lonely places on winter evenings.  It seemed as if the glowing eye would pierce Don Juan.  It thought, accused, condemned, threatened, judged, spoke—­it cried, it snapped at him!  There was the most tender supplication, a royal anger, then the love of a young girl imploring mercy of her executioners.  Finally, the awful look that a man casts upon his fellow-men on his way to the scaffold.  So much life shone in this fragment of life that Don Juan recoiled in terror.  He walked up and down the room, not daring to look at the eye, which stared back at him from the ceiling and from the hangings.  The room was sown with points full of fire, of life, of intelligence.  Everywhere gleamed eyes which shrieked at him.

“He might have lived a hundred years longer!” he cried involuntarily when, led in front of his father by some diabolical influence, he contemplated the luminous spark.

Suddenly the intelligent eye closed, and then opened again abruptly, as if assenting.  If a voice had cried, “Yes,” Don Juan could not have been more startled.

“What is to be done?” he thought

He had the courage to try to close this white eyelid, but his efforts were in vain.

“Shall I crush it out?  Perhaps that would be parricide?” he asked himself.

“Yes,” said the eye, by means of an ironical wink.

“Ah!” cried Don Juan, “there is sorcery in it!”